The Informant
by pound-key-0840
Summary: In order to find a missing teenage girl, Olivia Benson makes a radical choice when she recruits a mafia heir to be a confidential informant. Problems arise when she starts seeking more than just information from her CI. Then, things really get out of hand when her loyal partner finds out and the mafia catches the scent of a rat.
1. Chapter 1

**THE INFORMANT**

* * *

 **JUNE 4, 1999 — FRIDAY**

 **EXT. CASA DELLE ARAGOSTE, CITY ISLAND, NY - NIGHT**

The rancid stench of fish carcass and rotten produce mask the fresh, maritime air New Yorkers seek. Spring has passed and it hasn't rained for days, but the alley is wet from being hosed down by an underage and underpaid busboy working his first summer job. I pass two crates — makeshift stools — surrounded by stubbed cigarettes and one unsafely discarded syringe. The journey to the kitchen's back entrance is the kind of muggy experience that makes anyone feel like the humidity is clinging onto one's skin. And in this outfit, there's a lot of skin to cling to.  
I pull the black skirt to my hips to get the hem to hit just above the knee, but my hips flare out too far for the skirt not to ride up my waist. One step forward and it inches up, the night air brushing on newly bared skin. I'm not used to this much leg exposed, nor am I used to the first three buttons of my shirt undone. However, I have no say in my wardrobe when I'm supposed to be a waitress filling in for another girl with a nasty stomach bug. I have to wear the uniform; and customers like it when their surf and turf is served with a side of female objectification.  
There's static in my ear and a tightness around my chest. I run my thumb along the collar of my shirt and take a deep breath before I push the door to the kitchen. Immediately, the noise and smells of a restaurant kitchen fill my senses. Casa Delle Aragoste is a family seafood restaurant at the far end of the island. The glowing sign out front boasts fresh Maine lobster and classic Italian favorites. It's a Saturday night in early June and the parking lot is filling up with families celebrating their sons' and daughters' college graduations. Tonight, however, the biggest celebration will be held in a private room with an exceptional view of the Long Island Sound.

"You Patsy's replacement?"  
I turn to see a line cook eyeing me from head to toe. He sharpens a knife with great speed and without interruption to his ogling.  
"Yup," I answer. The less I say, the less chances the lie is exposed.  
"You're late."  
"I'm sorry —"  
"— I don't give a fuck, dahlin'," he says with a teasing grin. "Just get that tush over to Sandy at the pickup station. She's in charge of tellin' ya where to go. I think you're only supposed to be workin' the Fiorello engagement party, so it should be easy enough for ya."  
"Right… Thank you."  
He licks his lips, and with a small chuckle, returns to the San Marzano tomatoes laid out on his station. "No, dahlin', thank you."

As I approach the food pickup station, I take mental notes of the kitchen's layout and the faces of the staff. Cooks are running around with hot plates and serving trays, setting them down on a stainless steel ledge. A red-faced chef is yelling out orders before tacking the slips down a sharp, metal spike. Dressed in the same skimpy black-and-white uniform, waitresses pick up the finished orders with the expertise and precision of an assembly line. Standing in the middle of the chaos is a middle-aged, Italian-American woman with a perm and a brass name tag that reads: _Sandy_.  
"Sandy?" I try to get her attention, but she's in the middle of yelling over the chef calling out orders. "Hi, I'm Olivia B-Bateman. Here to pick up Patsy's shift."  
She turns to me, her penciled brows knitting together, then she slaps her forehead. "Right! Right! She said you work at that steakhouse — Medium Raw, is it? You ever serve private parties over there?"  
"Sure. All the time."  
"Excellent." She lays her hand on my shoulders and steers me toward a less hectic corner of the kitchen. She hands me a pen, notepad, and the restaurant's eight-page menu. "Look, the Fiorello party is scheduled to arrive in half an hour, but usually they run a little late. Brush up on the menu, familiarize yourself with our specials, and maybe sort out your hair before they arrive —"  
"— What's wrong with my hair?" I ask, smoothing down the crown of my ponytail.  
"Nothing. Just could use a little more body," she says, fluffing her own box-dyed nest of hair spray and mousse. "Anyway, I'm sure you know what to do. If you need anything, I'll be at the front of the restaurant — Hey!" she yells, her arm raised in the air to point at a confused sixteen-year-old. "What I tell you about sayin' ' _behind yooou_ ' when you're walkin' behind the cooks?"  
When Sandy leaves, I prop myself against the wall, trying to be as invisible as possible. I study the menu but can't get past the first few appetizers before I'm distracted by the faint buzz in my right ear. Tucking a few stray strands behind my ear, I take the opportunity to adjust the flesh-colored earpiece. The buzz turns into a high-pitched squeal and I try my best to stop from cringing.  
Then a familiar voice comes on. "Everything all right, Liv?" asks my partner, Elliot Stabler. He's sitting in the back of an unmarked van along with Detectives Munch and Tutuola. "Your sound just turned off for a sec."  
Tucking my chin down, I spot the mic taped to my chest, its wire running down my cleavage to a thin radio strapped to my lower back. "Mmhmmm…"  
"Remember, code word is 'Puff Daddy' if anything goes awry," Elliot says as I hear Fin's stifled chuckles.  
"Mmmhmmm…"

Over the next forty minutes, guests of the Fiorello engagement party begin to arrive at the restaurant. My knowledge of the menu remains scant, but my hair is teased to a fuller ponytail. One of the waitresses I'll be working with tonight has advised — no, instructed — me to unbutton another button of my blouse. Ensuring the mic stays unseen, I politely follow her direction.  
"Once the guests of honor arrive, we'll make our way in and take drink orders. Cool?"  
"Sounds good," I reply.  
We watch as Sandy, who's working as the maitre d', crosses names on the leather-bound reservation book. Families stream into the restaurant. They're all dressed to the nines — some of the kids still wearing the caps and gowns they wore earlier at their graduations. The doors open and one man steps inside. Meadow, the waitress beside me nudges me with her shoulder. "Hottie at twelve o'clock."  
It's more like two o'clock but I refrain from making the correction. The man who's just walked in is, indeed, a _hottie_ — a very young, very lost-looking _hottie_. He cranes his neck, above the other heads huddled around the entrance; he's in search of a familiar face. Instead, he catches my eye and he lingers for a second longer than what's permissible between two strangers.  
My cheeks suddenly feel warm.  
"You think he's going to be at the engagement party?"  
"I don't know," I say even though a small part of me hopes he will be.  
Minutes pass before Francis Fiorello and his bride-to-be, Claire Ashby, arrive fashionably late with a pair of saccharine grins — tell-tale signs of being so in love punctuality is an afterthought.  
Meadow starts to move and I follow suit, stuffing my pen and notepad into the pocket of my mini skirt. I follow her down the narrow spaces between tables in the main dining room, and up a couple of steps toward a more intimate seating area with candles and fresh flowers. She keeps walking and doesn't spare a look to see if I'm following her. I take the chance to adjust the earpiece and straighten the wire through my shirt.  
We're steps away from the doors to the private function room when I feel a hand grip my arm and pull me into a dark, dark room.

"What the —" A hand muffles the words from my mouth.  
"Shhh…"  
"Pff Ddy—" I say, but his hand presses more firmly over my mouth as his other hand loosens around my arm. I try to make sense of the scene before me but it's too dark and the only light filtering in is through the edges of the door, and all I can make out is the outline of the abductor's face. He has a high forehead, a perfectly sloped nose, knifelike cheekbones, and a jaw with such sharp angles he could be a study of geometric art.  
I gasp — warm air blowing into the skin of his palm. It's the ' _hottie at twelve o'clock_ ' and, this time, he really is at twelve o'clock and I might as well be there with him when our bodies are so dangerously close. If I take a deep breath and exhale, I'm sure my breasts will brush up against his own chest.  
"Listen," he whispers straight to my ear, his voice a deep rumble that can't be picked up by the wire. "I know who you are and who you work for. The second you set foot into that room, you'll have two men twice your size doing a body search. They'll pat you down, find that mic pack under your shirt and that earpiece that doesn't even match the color of your skin. They'll figure out you're a cop and they'll handle the situation before any of your buddies can come in to back you up." He slowly retrieves the hand covering my mouth and he pulls back to note my reaction. It's the first time I get a good look at his dark, focused eyes.  
I press two fingers down on my breastbone to obscure the sound. For some reason, this strange man has just warned me about heightened security, possibly saving my life in the process. "Why are you doing this?"  
He shakes his head. "Whatever you're looking for, you're not going to find here."  
"What do you think I'm looking for."  
His mouth curls into a smile and his white teeth catch the dim light.  
"You said you know who I am —"  
"— I know you're a cop," he answers quickly. "FBI, DEA, it doesn't matter. I'd rather not see you get caught."  
I feel my whole palm pressed firmly on my chest and I can feel my heart racing. Who is this man? If he knows what's happening behind those doors, why does he want to protect me?  
"Look, this is an engagement dinner with family and friends — that's all there is to it." He lowers his chin so our gazes are almost level. He swallows, and I watch as his Adam's apple disappears for a brief second. Suddenly, my throat feels dry and my skin is glowing red with warmth. When he speaks, I can feel his breath ghosting over my face and I can almost taste the peppermint on his tongue. "You're better off saving this cute, lil' undercover outfit for another day."  
"I don't buy any of this." I wave a finger across the narrowing space between us, ignoring the amused expression on his distractedly handsome face. "I know you didn't pull me into this — this —"  
"— Linen closet."  
"— This linen closet so you can protect me. I know you're protecting the Fiorello Five."  
He puts his hands up and his grin spreads across his face. "You got me, officer."  
"It's detective."  
"Apologies, detective."  
My ear is ringing again and I hear Elliot's voice asking me what's going on. They can probably hear the muffled sounds from the wire and, knowing my partner, he's probably got his gun pulled from his holster ready to barge in here. I lower my chin to speak close to the uncovered mic, "I'm fine, El."  
"Who's El?"  
I narrow my eyes at my abductor and set my palm over my breastbone. "If you work for the Fiorello Five, why are you preventing me from getting caught? Wouldn't you want to see your friends 'handle' me as you so kindly put it?"  
His jaw tenses. He doesn't answer the question but he turns his head to the closed door, and in the process, his chest briefly brushes up against my right breast. I inhale — inaudible anywhere else but this confined space. I'm about to lean back to create more space between us when he surprises me; he takes as much of a step back as humanly possible. His back is pressed up against the shelf and I watch as his shoulders fall in a heavy breath.  
"I gotta go. Someone's probably looking for me."  
"Wait," I tell him, one hand reaching out to grip his bicep. I feel the hard muscle through his shirt and my heart picks up like a runner on its last stretch. "You didn't answer my question."  
"I don't work for the Fiorello Five," he says as he looks me straight in the eye. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say anything with so much conviction that I could doubt it for even a second. His tongue sweeps over his bottom lip as he glances over to my fingers pressing into the sleeve of his shirt. When he looks back to me, his dark eyes are glazed over and more intent than they've ever been. "And, no, I don't want any of those guys —" he bites his lip and releases with a sigh. "— handling you."  
The door pushes open, flooding the closet with a blinding light. My fingers lose the sensation of cotton and muscle and just as fast as he pulls me in, he's out.

 **INT. UNMARKED POLICE VAN, CITY ISLAND, NY - NIGHT**

I never make it inside the function room where Francis and Claire are celebrating their engagement. I don't even get to see the shocked and confused look on Sandy's face when I disappear through the back door. I do remember the line cook yelling at me, asking me if I was leaving to go to my other job as a stripper. "Dahlin, those tits are wasted in a restaurant!"

I'm in the back of an unmarked police van near the bridge between Pelham Bay Park and City Island. Fin and Munch are sitting in an unmarked sedan just a few spots away, leaving me and Elliot to debrief what just happened in the restaurant.  
Pulling the earpiece off, I chuck it on the table where the radio is situated. "I'm telling you, he wasn't with the Fiorello Five."  
"Come on, Liv. You actually believe him?"  
I remember how he looked me in the eye when he said it. He was so serious, but I could also tell there was a tinge of sadness in his delivery. I can tell Elliot what I saw and what I heard to try to persuade him, but I know better. He'll say I'm doing it again — letting my intuition cloud what's sensible and easily observable.  
"You should have called for us."  
"Puff Daddy," I say, rolling my eyes. I untuck my shirt and reach underneath to strip the bandage holding the wire and radio in place. "I had it under control."  
"You think you had it under control," he corrects, as he helps me remove the pins holding the bandage in place. I lift my shirt just below my bra line and he doesn't even appear embarrassed in the slightest. His fingertips brush over my skin as he unhooks the metal from the fabric, and then just like that, his hands are back to his sides. "He could've had a gun."  
"But he didn't."  
"You played fast and loose with your life."  
"Hardly," I say, rolling my eyes again. I know he hates it when I do so I keep doing it — anything to get a reaction out of him. "He pulled me into a linen closet and warned me that I'd be in danger if I walked into that room. I'd argue my decision to bail was actually playing it safe."  
"I don't trust this guy. Why would he be at the boss' son's engagement party if he wasn't part of the family business? Frankie Fiorello has gone from associate to soldier faster than anyone else in the history of organized crime. Think about it."  
"Maybe you're right, but you wouldn't have wanted me to take the risk anyway."  
Elliot steeples his fingers over his mouth and exhales. Sinking down to the bench, he hunches forward and his mouth twists into a frown. "Fine. Whatever."  
"My body could be floating down the East River by now."  
"Don't." He raises a hand to stop me.  
I take the spot beside him, our knees and shoulders touching. The skirt is so far up my thighs, it's borderline indecent. I've also kept the top four buttons of my blouse unbuttoned; I'm sure if I lean forward, he'll get a good view of those tits that are apparently wasted in the restaurant business. The washed scent of his aftershave wafts between us, and instantly it reminds me of a time when my nose was tucked below his jaw, inhaling like I already knew the memory would fade.  
"Liv," he starts. "Maybe you should ride with Munch back to the precinct. Fin and I will hang back and wait to see if we can get a sighting of Jenny n' Kevin."  
"But you guys said you didn't see them walk in."  
He shrugs. "Maybe we missed 'em."  
"I can stay —"  
"— You've had an, um, interesting night," he says. "Munch already knows and they all agree that you should take it easy. We'll regroup tomorrow."  
There's no point arguing my case. Elliot has been trying to avoid me since March, which is quite a challenge considering I'm his assigned partner. But he manages to find a way to switch partners, trade shifts, or limit our interactions to strictly professional conversations. It's a far cry from the way things were before a snow storm and an unexpected overnight stay in a Pine Hill motel.  
"Fine. Whatever," I mock him. "I'll go."

 **INT. THE 16TH PRECINCT, MANHATTAN, NY - NIGHT**

After changing out of the waitress uniform and into my own clothes, I settle in front of my computer. Booting up the cream-coloured monstrosity takes a few minutes, so I turn my attention to the cork board at one end of the room. Tacked on the board, we have pictures and names of the Fiorello Five — one of New York's fastest-growing criminal organizations . At the very top is the Boss — Roberto Fiorello — also known to his constituents as Don. Right below him are four Caporegimes — Antonio "Tony" Messina, Gianni "Benny" Beneventi, Nicolas "Slicks" Amaro, and Christopher "Babyface" Fiorello. Under the hierarchy, soldiers and associates' mugshots and names are laid out, including one of newly engaged Francis "Frankie" Fiorello.  
The Windows 97 sound alerts me that the computer is ready. I open up the files on our investigation of a missing sixteen-year-old girl named Jennifer Kauffman. So far, we don't have much leads. We do have a statement from her single mother, Kara, about how she and Jenny had a heated argument the night before she went missing. When Kara woke up the next morning to find Jenny was gone, she didn't think anything of it. Jenny sometimes got a head start and passed by a friend's apartment before heading to her high school on the Lower East Side. When the school called that Jenny had been absent and when she wasn't home for supper, Kara chose not to report it to the police right away. She waited until the next morning, hoping her daughter would return on her own.  
In hindsight, Kara regrets it.  
I open the files shared to us by the FBI and the DEA. The FBI has been trying to take down the Fiorello Five using the RICO Act for years. The DEA is a relatively new addition to the investigation, often contending with the FBI on how to approach the criminal organization. SVU is the newest on the case, and we probably wouldn't have been allowed to investigate if the feds got their way. Luckily, Captain Cragen convinced his bosses in 1-PP to allow SVU to look into Jenny's disappearance and why she was last seen in public with 23-year-old Kevin Esposito — one of Tony Messina's up-and-coming associates.

"Don't shit all over our investigation," warned the large egos working for the more well-funded agencies.  
As much as I find their personalities to be collectively unappealing, I have to commend the feds for their years of research on the Fiorello Five.  
I've looked at these files a few times and I have Kevin Esposito's face imprinted into my memory. Like the rest of the squad, I watched the door at that restaurant, waiting to see if Kevin walked in with Jenny on his arm just like in the security footage from a building not far from Penn Station. Jenny didn't appear to be distressed in the picture, but it still makes me sick to know he's manipulated her. She's sixteen. It's disgusting and illegal.  
Instead of searching for more information on Kevin, I look through the image files in search of a face. It's only been twenty hours since Jenny has been officially declared missing, so I haven't had much time to study. Members of the Fiorello Five are sometimes featured on local newspapers and tabloids to honor their contributions to many of the city's charities. A clipping from the New York Post shows the complete Fiorello Five, arms slung over each others' shoulders and cigars wedged between their yellowed teeth. One from the Observer shows Don with his son Frankie at a fundraiser at the Waldorf Astoria - the cause: funding public school art programs for inner-city kids. The New York Daily News also covers this fundraiser, but instead features a different shot.  
The caption reads, _"Real estate tycoons Roberto Fiorello and Nicolas Amaro with each of their sons: Francis and Nicolas Jr. respectively."_  
The news story is over ten years old and the two boys in the image look like they've barely passed puberty, but there's no mistaking that I know I met Nicolas Jr. in the linen closet at Casa Delle Aragoste. I look at his father's face and see the hard planes, the high cheekbones, and those penetrating eyes. I don't know why I didn't make the connection before. Apart from a different nose and a narrower, more athletic build, the man in the closet looks just like his father.

 **JUNE 5, 1999 — SATURDAY**

 **EXT. 127TH AND AMSTERDAM AVE., MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS, NY — MIDNIGHT**

It doesn't take long to figure out where Nicolas Amaro Jr. lives even when he doesn't have a police record — not even a parking ticket. The FBI has done their due diligence in assuring that the younger Amaro is not involved in any way with his father's business. In fact, it's been over a year since he last saw his father and that was only to attend his grandmother's funeral. As I read the notes clearing him of any involvement, it affirms his claims from earlier that evening. I'm not sure what it is exactly — maybe it's the curiosity about his relationship with his father, or maybe it's got something to do with feeling guilty for doubting him — but I pick up my car keys and drive to the address on file, park across the street, and wait.  
He lives in a fourth-floor walk-up with a Kodak printing center on the first floor. Apartment 4A faces the street. The lights are turned off and no one's home, and if there's anything I know about Italian Americans and dinner parties, I know it keeps going through the night. I sit and wait, watching the quiet street for any activity. At the corner of 126th, there's a teenager with a backwards baseball cap and he's leaning against the vandalized wall of a bodega.

The scene retrieves memories of the last time Elliot and I were called to the neighborhood. It was a case involving the rape of a Columbia grad student. She had received grants and scholarships that helped persuade her conservative Iranian family to send her to the United States to pursue further studies. She had been living in New York for eight months with no problem — she figured out the subway system, she easily made friends with a tight group of international grad students, and she scored a studio apartment within walking distance of the university. The investigation, as many of them do, led SVU down a path of multiple rapes in the area with the same perpetrator. The suspect in question was a man on the run last seen holing up at his uncle's cabin near the Murphy Hill State Forest.  
It was the Ides of March — I remember because I mentioned it in the car on the way upstate. Elliot was driving and I was trying to evoke out loud the salient plot points of the Shakespearean tragedy. We laughed because I kept mixing it up with at least three other tragedies. On that drive, I learned Elliot once gave an A+ delivery of Brutus' oration in front of his tenth grade English class. I imagined tenth grade Elliot and wondered what it would've been like if I met him as tenth grade me. Would he be my best friend? Would he see me and choose me instead?  
On March 16th, the drive back to the city was filled with the palpable sound of silence.

The stakeout clocks in a full hour before I start to feel the exhaustion hit me. I yawn, resting my eyes a full ten seconds before I open them wide to prove my wakefulness. I debate running to the bodega to get a cup of stale coffee or one of those disgusting energy drinks, but I decide against it for the next ten minutes — a dare to myself. At minute seven, a silver Buick pulls up in front of the Kodak store. I'm holding my breath when the passenger door opens and out steps Nicolas Amaro Jr. — the boy in the New York Daily News who is now a man in every sense of the word.  
He leans into the passenger window, forearms resting on the door, finishing up the chat with the driver whose face I can't make out in the darkness. As he pulls away to stand straight, I notice that he puts something in his left pocket. It happens quickly, and then he's waving at the driver as the car speeds down Amsterdam Avenue.  
When the car's out of sight, he steps up to the curb and reaches for his keys. I make my move. Stepping out of the car, I cross the street. I catch him by the shoulder as he turns the knob and pushes the door to the apartments upstairs.  
"What the fuck!" He takes a defensive stance, pushing my hand from his shoulder and turning on his heel. He faces me, our eyes wide and locked. I think recognition hits him just as I follow my instincts and reach for my gun in my holster. My fist curls around the grip and I pull.  
"Don't shoot!"

* * *

 **AN: Please let me know what you think by leaving a review. I'd love to get some feedback and reactions, whether you love it or hate it. I didn't want to say this was slightly AU at the beginning because I wanted Nick's reveal to be a surprise, but for the most part everything else is canon. I just wanted to utilize characters that already exist in the SVU universe in a different way. I hope you like it!**


	2. Chapter 2

**THE INFORMANT**

* * *

 **JUNE 5, 1999 - SATURDAY**

 **EXT. 127TH AND AMSTERDAM AVE., MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS, NY — MIDNIGHT**

My finger is poised on the trigger.  
Eyes wide, he takes a step back and throws his hands up to surrender. "Don't —" He urges as his breaths come out in shallow pants. "— I'm unarmed."  
"I — I know." I lower the weapon to the level of my hip; nonetheless, I keep it secure in my hold. "I was never going to shoot. You just — You reacted so quickly, I —"  
"— How was I supposed to react?" He seethes. "You crept up on me in this neighborhood in the middle of the night. Was I supposed to let you mug me?"  
I nod once, assuring him that he can relax and put his hands down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to spook you."  
"Shit," he says, looking over his shoulder. "Did you follow me here?"  
"No. Well, not exactly," I attempt to explain but I realize it's much harder to collect my thoughts when he's standing there, all wigged out. He cocks his head to the side and gives me a curious yet cautious look. "I figured out who you are and searched for your address on our records, then I drove here from the station."  
"You have my address on record? Never mind —" He steeples his fingers over his mouth and exhales. "What the hell are you following me for? What do you want from me?"  
"We need to talk —"  
"— Nah, I'm not getting involved with cops."  
"You should have thought about that before pulling me into a closet to warn me about the security at your cousin's party."  
"Look," he starts, "I did you a favor by warning you about those guys, but I don't have to talk to you about anything else unless you got a warrant." He turns on his heel and reaches for the gated door to the apartments upstairs. He pulls it open and I catch a glimpse of a dark, narrow hallway leading to a set of stairs. As he heads into the building, I catch the door before it can slam shut.  
"Nicolas," I call his name and watch as his shoulders stiffen. "It's about a missing girl."  
He stops dead in his tracks, one foot on the first step. "Fine," he says. "But we can't be seen talking out here…"

 **INT. 127TH AND AMSTERDAM AVE., MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS, NY — MIDNIGHT**

"Nice place," I remark as I follow him into his apartment. He stops by a bar cart in his kitchen and folds his arms, allowing me a moment to observe the space.  
The apartment is nicer than anything I would expect from a 25-year-old bachelor. It's no penthouse suite in SoHo, but it's no pig sty. It's well-decorated, albeit sparse with furniture. The place itself is a large studio with brick walls, exposed ceilings, and a bay window leading out to the fire escape. There's a dining table that seats six, but it doesn't serve its purpose on account of it being covered with various tools and half-finished projects. Separating the large room is a mid-century bookshelf filled with books and architectural models crafted out of a variety of materials. Between Kurt Vonnegut and Bret Easton Ellis stands a model of the Chrysler building made of aluminum sheets. Nestled between José Martí and Ernest Hemingway is a wooden model of the colonial architecture typically seen in the streets of Havana. My gaze returns to the table and I study the unfinished replica of the Guggenheim.  
"You build all of that?" I ask, gesturing over to the shelf of architectural models. "It's impressive."  
"No need to butter me up, Detective —"  
"— Benson," I finish for him. He doesn't react; he simply stands there with his arms crossed and his face devoid of emotion. "Okay then. I'll cut to the chase. It's been almost 24 hours since Jenny Kauffman, a 16-year-old girl, was reported missing by her mother. The last sighting of her was yesterday morning. She was leaving a deli across the street from Penn Station. She didn't appear to be in distress based on the security footage, but she was arm-in-arm with an older man — someone I believe you know — Kevin Esposito."  
"Kevin?" He asks, his right brow arched. "I grew up with Kevin. I've known him for years and he's never been interested in jailbait."  
I bite my tongue at the mention of the term, but I try not to let my irritation show. "You may think you know him, but…"  
"Unless this girl dresses older and lied to him about her age, I don't see it happening," he reasons out loud. "Are you sure you got the right guy on video?"  
I nod affirmatively.  
He covers his mouth with his hand, pondering what I've just told him. I can see in his eyes that he has a hard time believing it, but it's not the first time a friend or a family member has been shocked and unconvinced that someone they knew all their life was a pervert. Granted, SVU doesn't know with certainty that Kevin is taking advantage of Jenny, but how else are they supposed to interpret that security footage?

"Nicolas —"  
"It's Nick. Just Nick," he corrects. His face takes on a pained expression, his arms curling tighter around his body. "Nicolas Amaro is my father, but I'm sure you've already figured that out."  
I take a few steps toward him, just enough distance so I can lose the authoritative cop voice. He lowers his head, his eyes narrowing like he's about to ask what I'm trying to do by getting closer. "Can I ask you a question, Nick?"  
"Depends on the question."  
"Why didn't you follow in the family footsteps? Is that why you and your father have a strained relationship."  
"Strained." He chuckles darkly and lets his arms hang at his sides. "By the way, that was two questions, but I'll answer 'em anyway to oblige you," he tells me as he fixes his stare on me. He smirks — a slight curl on one corner of his lips, revealing one long dimple on his cheek. He clicks his tongue and turns his gaze to his unfinished project on the dining table. "I didn't get into the real estate business because I detest the notion of nepotism. And my pops and I have a _'strained'_ relationship because he's a piece of shit father and an even worse husband. That answer both questions?"  
"I see…" I trail off as he dodges me to walk toward the book shelf in the middle of the studio. "No family contacts in architecture even though your father and uncles own buildings all over the city?"  
Nick's jaw clenches at the insinuation of my statement. "Detective Benson, you said you needed to talk to me about a missing girl. And you told me about Kevin getting with an underage chick, but I'm not sure why you think I can help you, or why you think I'd want to help you."  
"I need you to confirm Jenny's with Kevin, so we can locate her and safely bring her back to her mom."  
"You tried Kevin's apartment?" He asks in an acerbic tone, walking around the shelf into his makeshift bedroom. I stay behind, peering through the gaps on the shelf to see him sit on the bed and take off his shoes.  
"We've already checked the apartment, and we have unis watching the building as we speak. There's no sign of her."  
"Maybe she took off." He unbuttons the collar of his shirt and pushes up the sleeves.  
My throat is dry as dust. "Maybe. But she doesn't have much to get very far," I say, turning away when he lifts his head to look straight across the book shelf. "All I'm asking is for any information that can point me in her direction."  
"You want me to be a rat?" He stands up and peers at the edge of the shelf, his face inches from mine. " _Your_ rat?"  
"No." I clear my throat when the answer comes out rougher than I'd hoped. I take a step back and turn around, pacing back toward the dining table. "I work for SVU — Special Victims —"  
"— I know what it is." He disappears behind the shelf again and, this time, I can't make out what he's doing through the gaps. I hear the sound of a drawer pulled and some fabric rustling. I try not to think about Nick changing out of his clothes, and instead, I think about him knowing about SVU. Normally, civilians don't know much about it until they've had a personal encounter with the unit. Suddenly, the ambiguous comment Nick made about his father makes sense.  
"So you know the kind of cases I'm dealing with," I start. "I only care about Jenny's safety, which is why my team and I are not knocking on Kevin's door, guns blazing… I'm sure it'll come as no surprise to you that SVU isn't the only agency that has an interest in the Fiorello Five, but I promise you that we only want to secure Jenny's safety. I swear I'm not asking for any information on the family business or its operations."  
"I can't. No, I —" Nick steps out from behind the book shelf. "— If any of my family finds out I'm talking to a cop — Hell, if any of 'em finds out you're in my fucking apartment, I'm screwed."  
"They won't find out," I assure him. "Just think about it."  
"I've spent the last ten years of my life working hard to live on the straight path — to be everything my father's not. In exchange for me being able to be normal, I've promised my family that I'll never do or say anything that compromises what they've built. So I do my own thing; they do their own thing. Everything runs the way it should."  
"What about Jenny?"  
"Don't try to guilt trip me," he warns. "She ain't my problem."  
"Nick, there's a reason why you changed your mind and agreed to hear me out after I mentioned her… There's also a reason why you alerted me at the restaurant." My eyes are fixed on his, and I see that he's struggling to make a decision. He chews on his bottom lip and he looks away, sighing when he can't rationalize his earlier actions. "Unlike the rest of the men in your family, you care about women and children. You can't stand to see them get hurt. Everything else your father and your uncles do — it's not your problem. People are at fault if they knowingly get into business with the Fiorello Five. But all the wives, the girlfriends, the daughters — all of the women who get pushed around, having to deal with the chaos left by all that male ego… That must be hard to let go."  
"You an undercover shrink, too?"  
"No. But I know you want to help; otherwise, you would've slammed the door in my face."  
He interlaces his fingers behind his neck, exhaling a heavy breath. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he mutters. "Jenny's location? That's it?"  
"Nothing more."  
"I'll see what I can do," he says, releasing the grip on his neck. "But I can't promise you anything."  
"Thank you," I tell him, and I can't help how far my smile reaches. "Here's my card —" I reach into my back pocket to retrieve my calling card, and place it over his open palm. "— Call me if you come across anything that could help us."  
He carefully reads over the information. " _Oh-livia_ Benson."  
My brows raise in question.  
"Nothing," he says with a shake of his head. "You're lucky you didn't get a _'junior'_ tacked onto the end of your name."  
"Funny," I reply impassively, watching as he slips what I just gave him behind a prayer card of the Virgin Mary. When he slaps the wallet shut, he looks up at me with a faint and awkward smile. I know I should be leaving since I got what I wanted, but something I can't quite figure out has me rooted in place. I wait for him to say something, but he stays silent, looking at me in a way that makes my skin glow with warmth. "Hey, do you mind if I use your bathroom?"  
He cocks his head in the direction of a door to his right. "Go for it."

Like the rest of the apartment, the bathroom is nicer than I would expect from a 25-year-old bachelor. The white subway tiles are pristine and the sink is clear of anything except a bar of soap and a single cup containing a toothbrush. I look in the mirror and grimace at the sight of the dark circles under my eyes. I haven't slept a wink since Kara Kauffman's missing child report came to our desks and, now, the exhaustion is wearing on my face.  
Opening the medicine cabinet, I note the organized shelves of grooming products and tools. Shaving cream and a straight razor on the top shelf. Moisturizer, aftershave, and cologne on the second shelf. And on the last shelf — a few standard over-the-counter drugs next to a box of Magnum condoms.  
"Oh."  
I don't know what it is that compels me to do it, but I pull the box off the shelf, feeling its empty weight. When I look inside, sure enough the box is empty. Swallowing hard, I return it back just as it was positioned — the gold letters of the word _'Magnum'_ in full display. I quickly close the medicine cabinet and hear the plastic rattle inside. Flushing the toilet I never used, I turn back to the sink and wash my hands, drying them off on the front of my slacks when I realize the only towel in the room smells of soap with hints of leather and tobacco. It's Nick's towel, and there's something inappropriately intimate about running my hands on something that's dried his naked body off after a hot shower.

When I step out of the bathroom, Nick is sitting in front of his replica Guggenheim, his hands busy with an Xacto knife and a piece of sheet metal. "Find anything interesting in the medicine cabinet?"  
"I wasn't snooping —"  
"Save it, Detective." His eyes lock into mine, his mouth curled up in a sly smile.  
"You're out of condoms," I blurt out. My eyes widen at my own admission and I can feel my cheeks growing red hot. Across from me, Nick's smile fades.  
He hums softly as he drops the knife on the surface. "Really?"  
I nod. "I mean, it would suck to be in the heat of the moment, ready to go, only to find out that — _oops_ — you're out of condoms."  
"Yeah, that would really _suck_ ," he says, clearing his throat at the last word. "Doesn't mean I gotta stop. There are other ways I could keep it going."  
I blink back at him, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights.  
Did he just say what I think he said?  
Nick rests his elbow on one arm, his chin cupped by two fingers. He squints, although his dark eyes remain laser focused on mine.  
"I think I should go," I rush the words out, it sounds incoherent.  
He breaks eye contact — _thank god_ — to glance up at the clock on the wall. "But it's only one in the morning."  
"I'm way too old to be staying up this late."  
"You're not old," he says matter-of-factly. "You're what? Twenty-eight?"  
I snort — not chuckle or laugh — I full-on snort. "While I appreciate the compliment, I can see through your lies and flattery."  
"Swear to god," he says. "Twenty-nine?"  
"I'm going now." I retreat toward my escape, down the short hallway to his front door.  
Nick gets up and sprints the few steps to beat me to the door. His body pressed up on the flat surface gives me all sorts of illicit ideas that I'd rather ignore. He bites down on his bottom lip, and I'm convinced he's fully aware of the effect he has on women. Normally, I'd be put off by such shameless display of cockiness, but I'm weakened by his effortless charm. "Let me walk you down to your car."  
Tilting my head to the side, I give him a pointed look. "I think I can handle myself. Besides, I'm the one with the gun, remember?" Apparently, I haven't gone totally soft. There's still some of that badass Benson working overtime.  
He laughs, so deep I can feel a quiver deep in my belly. He throws his hands up in surrender just like he did out on the street. "Thanks for not shooting me."  
"You're welcome," I say, skirting around him and making sure our bodies make zero physical contact. I step out to the hall and look over my shoulder to see him standing there, his arm braced around the edge of the door. "Hey, don't forget to call if you have any information on Jenny."  
"Yes, ma'am."  
"Don't call me ma'am."  
He lowers his head and grins. "Yes, Olivia."

 **JUNE 7, 1999 - MONDAY**

 **INT. THE 16TH PRECINCT, MANHATTAN, NY - DAY**

The Motorola flip phone idly sits on the corner of my desk. It's almost been three whole days since I've last spoken to Nick and I still haven't received a call. The longer I don't hear from him, the more I'm convinced he's bailed on the idea of being my confidential informant. I'm aware of the risks he's taking by having my calling card stashed away in his wallet, but I was under the impression that his desire to help find Jenny outweighed any of those fears of being labelled a rat. I reach for the phone, flipping it open to see a blank, green glow.  
"You expecting a call?" Elliot asks from across our face-to-face desks.  
"Huh? No," I answer rather unconvincingly, before shaking my head as if to correct myself. "Yeah, I mean, I told my landlord about a leaky faucet. He said he'd call when he's done fixing it."  
"Either you're anxious to have a working faucet, or you're troubled about these rumors of a city drought."  
"I — yeah, sure."  
"Who's calling you?" Elliot asks.  
"I just told you —"  
"— Liv."  
I narrow my eyes at my partner, but before I can tell him to mind his own business, Cragen pops his head out of his office. "Benson, Stabler — I've got a call from campus police over at Hudson College."  
"Again?" Elliot plants his hands on the edge of the desk, and pushes himself off, his chair screeching on the linoleum. "When will this place start making anti-sexual assault PSAs mandatory viewing for its students?"

 **JUNE 8, 1999 - TUESDAY**

 **EXT. COFFEE CART ON SAINT ANDREWS PLAZA, MANHATTAN, NY - DAY**

"Two coffees. One black and the other with two cream, two sugar."  
My partner and I are outside the US Attorney's Office to meet with ADA Cabot on another case involving young children and a religious cult. It's been another whole day without any contact from Nick, and another whole day of Cragen's bosses telling us to scale back on the search for Jenny. After learning about the argument with her mother and the trouble with her teachers at school, a lot of the higher-ups think it's a runaway situation. In cases like this one and at Jenny's age of sixteen, the department fails to see a reason to expend its resources.  
"Thanks, El," I tell my partner as he hands me my coffee.  
"No problem." He blows into the opening and takes a sip, wincing when it burns his tongue. "I still don't know how you drink it black."  
"I wouldn't if these carts offered almond milk and sweetener."  
"Almond milk? That doesn't even make any sense. You can't milk a damn almond," he grumbles. It's the kind of old-man rant that makes me laugh on any day, but today, the only thing on my mind is Jenny. The longer she stays missing, the lesser the chances of finding her alive. Elliot sets the pace on the walk to the US Attorney's Office, his long strides matching the speed of his ramble. "And sweetener? A buddy of mine who works in ESU says those things are the reason why cancer's on the rise."  
"Do you hear yourself?"  
"Then please explain how one makes milk from an almond."  
"I —" I begin, although not really sure of the process myself, but then the Motorola rings, saving me from having to explain. I reach into my pocket and see a number unrecognized by caller ID. "— Benson."  
"Olivia? Hey, It's Nick."  
I stop in my tracks. My partner turns around and gives me a quizzical look, his coffee cup poised on his lips.  
"You know, Nick from the restaurant. Nick who you almost shot outside of his apartment."  
"Yes, I remember. Wait, can you give me a sec," I tell him, before putting my hand over the receiver. "El, I'm going to take this. I'll meet you and Alex inside."  
"Who is it?" Elliot asks.  
I raise my brows and wave my hand in the direction of the imposing building down the block. "Later, I'll tell ya."  
Elliot looks less than pleased with my response, but he does as told and heads for the US Attorney's Office.

Once he's out of earshot, I release my hold over the receiver and press the phone back to my ear. "Nick? Hey, sorry about that. You're calling. That means you know Jenny's location?"  
"No. See, about that —" he starts. "- I found out that Kevin's been seeing this new girl for the last couple of weeks. I actually met her last night at the Yankee game. She, uh, was not sixteen."  
"What?"  
"She was old enough to be Kevin's mom. That's why I told you I couldn't believe it when you said he was interested in a teenager. The Kevin I know has always had a taste for mature women…"  
"Okay… So she's not 'with' Kevin, but she was still last seen with him… Were you able to get anything else?"  
"Not necessarily about Jenny, but I do know that Tony has a few girlfriends on the side. His wife pretends she doesn't know about it so the checks keep coming in, but we all know he's got a steady rotation of women," Nick explains. "I don't know if you know but Kevin's been working under Tony's wing for the last few years."  
"We had some leads," I confirm without giving away too much.  
"Whatever Kevin was doing with Jenny in that security footage — it was my uncle Tony's orders."  
"How close can you get to Tony?"  
There's a long pause on the line before he speaks. "He doesn't like me, thinks I turned my back and brought shame upon the family when I decided to become an architect." The other line screeches and I hear the sound of coins clanging against metal. "But Tony's not my dad, so I'd say my odds of getting close are decent."  
"You think he'd harm Jenny?" I ask, thinking again of the possibility that Jenny could already be dead since she hasn't been seen or heard from since Friday morning.  
"Tony's a greedy bastard and a philanderer, but he wouldn't kill her and dispose of her body, if that's what you're asking."  
"Not exactly, but I suppose that answers my question," I reply, sighing at the strange sense of relief it gives me. "Thank you for calling. This is good. This helps us know who to focus on moving forward."  
"Yeah, of course. I told you I'd help."  
I look to the direction of the US Attorney's Office and watch as the suits flow in and out of the building. I'm already running behind the meeting, and even though I trust that Elliot's holding it down for the two of us, I hate giving off the wrong impression even if ADA Cabot is a friend outside of work.  
"Nick, I have to run. I have to prep for court —"  
"— Before you go," he rushes out. "I have to tell you one more thing."  
"Yeah?" I ask as I sprint up the steps.  
"I've replenished my stock of condoms," he updates me and I stop abruptly, my coffee sloshing out of the small opening and burning the back of my hand. I bite down on a curse as I listen to the smug sound of his voice in my ear. "As much as I think I've got all the other bases covered, so to speak, I wouldn't want to risk disappointing a woman if she came over and expected the, um, home run."  
I choke down a laugh. "How considerate of you."  
"I've been told it's one of my finer qualities."  
Opening the door to the building, I step inside and head for the elevators. "Goodbye, Nick."  
"Talk to you soon, Olivia."

 **INT. U.S. ATTORNEY'S OFFICE, SAINT ANDREWS PLAZA, MANHATTAN, NY - DAY**

Once I reach Alex' office, I'm surprised to see Elliot sitting across an empty desk. Before I can even ask, he has an explanation: "She got caught up in a deposition, but she's on her way here."  
I take a seat on the chair opposite Elliot's, allowing myself to rest my eyes and play back the phone conversation I had with Nick. But that lasts for all of two seconds before my partner wants to know all the details.  
"Who was that?"  
"No one," I answer. "Just my landlord."  
"Another leaky faucet?" He leans forward, studying microexpressions and taking note of body language like he's making the most of our mandatory non-verbal communication training. "Or was it faulty electrical this time around?"  
"El, please." I try to hold my ground to keep things confidential with Nick, but it's really hard to lie to my partner, especially when it's information pertaining to an open investigation. We rarely keep anything from each other — and never anything about work. "Fine. I have information on the Jenny Kauffman case."  
"The missing girl?" He asks, head rearing back in surprise. "Wait, but how?"  
"Turns out Kevin Esposito is dating someone new, but it isn't Jenny; It's an older woman. Kevin, for whatever reason, was seen on that tape with Jenny because he was doing something for Tony Messina."  
"We already knew her disappearance could be tied to someone up the chain," he says dismissively.  
"Right. But this time, I'm fairly certain Tony's the one who has her."  
He narrows those stormy blue eyes at me. "Where are you getting this information?"  
I shake my head, refusing to give up that much.  
"Shit, Liv. You have a CI and didn't tell me?" His voice booms, and even though we're the only two people in Alex' office, I still feel like the whole building can hear us.  
"Keep your voice down," I hiss. "Yeah, I have a CI. And, no, I'm not telling you who it is."  
"Why not?"  
"You have informants I don't know about."  
"Yes, because I've known those guys long before you and I started working together. Some of them I've known from my days as a Marine. But every CI I've had since, I've shared with you."  
I know he has a point, but I can't tell him about Nick. Once he finds out that my confidential informant is directly related to one of the Fiorello Five, he'll warn me that it's too dangerous. He'll tell me Nick can't be trusted. And, right now, even though my intuition tells me that Nick is a good guy, I don't know if Elliot can be persuaded. "You're just going to have to trust me."  
"Who is it?" He remains firm in his questioning. It sucks how good he is at his job because I find myself nearly cracking under the pressure.  
"I'll tell you when the time is right, but right now, we have to work on this case with Alex."  
"I'm going to find out," He leans back into the chair and holds my stare. "One way or another, I'm going to find out."

 **JUNE 10, 1999 - THURSDAY**

 **EXT. MARCUS GARVEY PARK, MANHATTAN, NY - DAY**

It's a summer afternoon and Nick Amaro is reading a book under the shade of an Oak tree. He's sitting on a bench, one foot propped up on the seat so he can rest his arm on his knee. From an outsider's perspective, it looks like an uncomfortable position, but he appears relaxed as can be. He flips a page on his book, his teeth tugging on his bottom lip, his brow furrowing in concentration. I wonder if the whole scene is real, or if it's orchestrated to fulfill some bookish fantasy I never even knew I had.  
"I'm here," I announce, standing a good three feet away from the bench — a safe distance in my mind. "What is it that you had to deliver to me in person?"  
He peers up from his book, his thick lashes framing a pair of deep, deep brown eyes. He smiles softly as he closes the book and sets it aside. "It's nice seeing you too, Olivia."  
"Out with it."  
"Are you always this blunt with your informants?" He asks, amusement dancing in those gorgeous eyes.  
"Only the ones that like to play games and force me to meet with them to tell me something that could've easily been said over the phone."  
"Force you?" His hand flies to his chest. "I didn't force you to come here. I said I'd like to tell you something in person, and you dictated the time and location."  
"Nick." I cross my arms over my chest, tapping my feet on the hot pavement.  
He stretches both legs in front of him — in a way, closing the proximity between us. "I know how Tony met Jenny."  
I stand straighter, my eyes widening at the new information.  
"You know Jenny goes to St. Timothy's in the Lower East Side, right? Well, it turns out Father Jeremiah's got a gambling problem and it's been chipping away at the school's funding for chapel renovations. Tony doesn't like it when people owe him — so I'll let you fill in the rest."  
"So Tony goes to St. Timothy's to talk to Father Jeremiah about the money he owes, then Tony picks Jenny out of the crowd?"  
"Not from what I hear." Nick gets up, tucking the book under his arm. It's the first chance I get to see the cover: _The Name of the Rose_ by Umberto Eco. "Look, I get that Jenny's legally a minor, but she's a teenager. She's not exactly the nuns' favorite student."  
"I've seen my share of misbehaved kids. Whatever you heard, I can take it." I follow him down the path heading west.  
"Word is she came onto Tony," he says, lowering his head and watching me for a reaction. "That's what I'm hearing from Tony's guys on the street. They're saying Jenny waited for him by his car and asked if she could get a drive home because she lost her Metro Card."  
"So he knew she was a minor and still allowed it to happen?"  
"Look, I don't know if Tony was having sex —"  
"— It's rape," I correct him. "It would be statutory rape."  
"All right. I'm not disagreeing with you," Nick says, his hand up to assure me he's on my side. "I'm just saying — No one knows for sure if anything else happened. Tony drove her home and he was back with his boys in the office 30 minutes later. He told the story, bragged about how he's getting attention from younger women, and that was it. As far as all his associates are concerned, she was nothing more than an ego boost. They don't even know Kevin was with her days later."

We pass through a stone bridge overlooking a man-made pond. The water is murky and the edges are littered with chips packets and juice boxes. I stop in the middle of the bridge and turn to face him. "When did Tony go to the school?"  
"Monday," Nick answers. "May 31st."  
"The same week Jenny went missing…" I trail off, resuming our walk down the winding path. "So Kevin knows what's going on between his boss and Jenny."  
He ruffles through the curls at the top of his head, pulling it between his fingers. "I'll try to look into Kevin again." He looks away, and I can sense there's something troubling his mind. He mentioned growing up with Kevin. I can understand it's not easy to have friends and family whose values and livelihoods are directly opposed to one's own.  
"You're not at risk of being exposed, are you?"  
"No. Those guys are idiots," he says with a reassuring smile. "My cousin, Frankie, noticed that I'm not refusing as much to go out with him and the boys. But he'd never suspect it's because I'm trying to help out a cop… He has other reasons why he thinks I'm going out more."  
"Like?"  
His smile widens, his cheeks flushing. "Ah, let's not get into it."  
"Come on," I tease, poking him lightly on the rib. "You've told me a little about your family. I like it when you open up."  
"You're a different kind of cop, you know that?"  
"I've been told." I chuckle. "Now, spill."  
"All right, all right. I was seeing my ex again — it was one of those on-again, off-again relationships." He stops himself and shakes his head. "Wait, why am I telling you this?"  
"Because I'm an undercover shrink, remember?"  
"You prescribing me any happy pills after this session?"  
"I'll think about it," I banter back. "Now tell me more about this ex of yours."  
"All right. So we we're on since Thanksgiving, which is a long stretch for us. Everything was going well, we were settling into our jobs and figuring out our schedules. Then while we're out having dinner, she tells me that I should start looking for an engagement ring. Something no smaller than two carats and princess cut — whatever the fuck that means. And so I'm sitting there across the only girl that's ever really been my serious girlfriend, and she's planning out our wedding and the rest of our lives, and all I can think about is disappearing. So I made up some dumb excuse about Frankie needing me, and I got out of there."  
"That poor girl."  
"If it makes you feel better, she slapped me, took the puppy we rescued, and broke up with me. I mean, I suggested we wait a few more years… I told her I wasn't ready to get married yet."  
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "She probably figured out that it wasn't that you weren't ready to get married. It was that you never wanted to marry her — not now, not in _'a few more years'_."  
"I — I don't get why —" He scratches his temple. "Everyone thought I was crazy, you know? But I just — I don't know. It felt like I was settling, and I hated the feeling of being so uncertain about someone who's supposed to be the most important person in my life."  
"A lot of people make the mistake of marrying their first love. Then they meet someone later in life and realize there was a whole world of people they missed out on."  
"Yeah, my parents got married young," Nick says, kicking a small mound of dirt. "Look how that turned out."  
"My mother was wise. She was never married," I reveal. I'm not sure what compels me to open up, but I think the way Nick speaks so openly, for someone who should have so many secrets, is refreshing. "I think I'm bound to the same fate as my mother, and I'm trying my best not to sound so self-loathing when I say it."  
"That's another thing I don't get." Nick blocks my way, standing right in front of me — so close that I can smell the cologne on his shirt. My head feels fuzzy. My skin flushes, yearning to feel something other than the summer humidity. "How has no man — single or married — realized you're the world he's missing out on?"  
"How do you know I'm not with someone?"  
"Are you?"  
"Well, no, but that's not the point."  
"I'm serious," he says insistently. "I don't know you well, Olivia. You might as well have terrible feet, the most disgusting apartment in the city, or a medical history that would not win over your average Neanderthal looking to procreate. But I know you're smart and kind. You save people for a living and you probably do it out of the goodness of your heart, and not whatever pension the NYPD promises you at the end of your career… And you're — look at you. You're beautiful."  
"Oh," I whisper, lowering my head when his gaze becomes too much. "Look who's talking."  
"What do you mean?"  
"You're the son with a moral compass able to withstand the pressure of your criminal family. I'm sure that's the plot to the next big superhero movie," I tell him as we keep walking toward the edge of the park. "And, well, look at you," I say, opening my hands out in front of him. "I don't think you've had any trouble finding women after your ex dumped you."  
"Not the _right_ women," he says humorlessly. "Olivia, go out with me."  
"I am _out_ with you."  
"Don't play that game with me. I can be pedantic, too."  
"Big word for an average Neanderthal."  
He chuckles. "Would a Neanderthal ask you nicely if you would do him the honor of letting him take you out to dinner?"  
I wave him off and walk faster. "I can't get involved with a confidential informant."  
He falls into step with me, walking backward so he can face me. "Is it in the rule book? I'll need some proof if that's the only thing keeping you from saying _'yes'_ to a date."  
"Okay, I don't think it's a written rule —" I grab his arm and pull him away from nearly colliding with a metal garbage can. When I see him smirk at my hand around his arm, I almost wish I had let him collide with the damn thing. "— But it's frowned upon."  
"Frowned upon?" He asks incredulously. "Your boss, Mayor Giuliani, and President Clinton can frown all they want. I don't care and neither should you. All that matters is doing whatever I can to keep that smile on your face."  
"What smile?" I say, trying my best to press my lips together in a tight line.  
"That smile. You can't try to hide it." He points to my face, his own face lighting up. "See! It's right there!"  
"Nick!" My cheeks hurt and my eyes rim with happy tears. Try as I might, I can't deny that being with Nick makes me the happiest I've been in a very long time. Still, I know better than to get involved with a CI, especially one that's connected by blood to one of the city's sought after criminal organizations. "You're not even supposed to be talking to a cop, now you want to date one? You're putting yourself at greater risk by doing this."  
He stands tall, shoulders back and stare locked on mine. "I've been known to take risks."  
"Have any of them paid off?"  
"I've never once regretted them."

* * *

 **AN: Hey! Thanks for reading chapter two! Also, thanks for all the reviews for the first chapter. To all the people who said 'great start' and 'more please', I hope this second chapter has satiated your appetites. Don't worry... the sexy stuff is coming soon. I just like to tease ;) Please review and let me know what you think!**


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